


Rustlin' McJunk

by Sphealrical



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: BAMF from McCree's belt buckle stands for Bi Ass Mother Fucker, Crack Fic, I'm, Junkrat is the femme fatale, M/M, McCree and Tracer are a spy pair like from Get Smart, Spies & Secret Agents, ficpost, not sure what to label this, shitpost fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-15 01:25:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8036818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sphealrical/pseuds/Sphealrical
Summary: McCree (Agent 015) gets seduced by the femme fatale





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snacko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snacko/gifts), [FallingCrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallingCrow/gifts), [if maddy tells me her ao3 i will gift this to her](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=if+maddy+tells+me+her+ao3+i+will+gift+this+to+her).



> I........ would like to thank the wonderful maddy-go-saddy and snackodile for always believing I could do it. I would like to thank corvoditty for having a british accent. I would also like to thank Junkrat for being who he is, Tracer for being who she is, and McCree for being who HE is and realizing his belt buckle stands for Bi Ass MotherFucker
> 
> THANK YOU ESPECIALLY TO SNACKODILE.TUMBLR.COM FOR THE ART YOU'RE ABOUT TO SEE BC IT'S A GIFT  
> UPDATE: THEY FULLY RENDERED THE IMAGE SO I UPDATED IT

“Awright, 015,” Tracer began, eyes scanning the CCTV video feed. “You go ask the ba’tender if he’s seen anything extrordinary lately. Next go ‘round, I’ll come in, walk ‘round a bit, and see if I can’t find anyone with connections.”

“Mmhmm,” you say. “The ol’ tag team routine. It ain’t my first rodeo. Go do your thing 008.”

She smiles as you get out.

You’ve been doin the whole secret agent thing for a long while. Didn’t expect when you signed up to do your duty as an American at the ripe legal age of 18 that they’d take one look at you and whisk you away to some special forces bullshit. 

“Your ruggish charm naturally makes people more trusting of you.” they said.  _ Psychologists. _ It’s all bullshit. Nothing a man can trust ‘cept his ol’ revolver, you told ‘em. 

“Perfect.” They said, “keep saying stuff like that. You’ll do fine.”

The  _ fancy  _ bar scene was never your thing, but it’s even  _ less _ Tracer’s thing, and somebody’s gotta do it. Here, the seats at the counter are all connected in a bench to promote talking and networking amongst the rich patrons. You prefer the old-fashioned type deal, where everyone got their own stool and largely ignored everyone else in the room ‘cept the guy shoving alcohol into their hands.

Thankfully when you enter you see the bench-barstool-thing is largely empty. You sit as far away from everyone else as possible. This’ll help with inconspicuously gathering intel.

“One appletini.” you tell the bartender. You have to order a few drinks before they’ll start talking.

“What’re the odds!” a voice pipes up behind you. Sugary: sweet and scratchy like they’re used to screaming names, “that’s my drink of choice too! Mind if I sit here, guv’nor?”

You look in the speaker’s direction to see a tall, skinny but lightly muscled boy with his platinum blonde hair styled in slicked spikes around his head. He wears a tight-fitting red dress. Sequined. He indicated the seat he wanted to take by putting his far-side foot on the spot, you could only imagine causing the side-slit down his dress to open far wider than what was probably socially acceptable. He wore black high heels with thin ribbons around the ankles. He grinned at you from under his blonde eyelashes as he waited on your answer.

“Barkeep?” you asked, not able to tear your eyes off him, “better make it heavy. I think it’s gonna be a long night.”

The male laughs as he straddles the seat. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, cowboy.”

He turns his body to the bartender to place his order, and you find yourself trying your hardest not to stare. He has tattoos. One of them peeks out on the slip of skin you can see on his thigh, and it’s hard to decipher what it is without seeming like a creep.

“So!” He starts in a thunderclap of a word, “what’s a guy like ya doin’ ‘round ‘ere? Not much for an American tourist to do out in the middle of nowhere.”

It kind of looks like a… tire track? Or like the pattern on a tire? You can’t be sure cause it’s on his far leg, and you can only see a small portion from where the dress slit sits on his thigh, but you’re pretty sure it’s something to do with a tire.

You realize he asked you a question and if you don’t answer fast enough, he’l get suspicious. The agency taught you default shit-on-America phrases that foreigners love to here, thankfully, and you say the first one you can think of.

“Well, you know us Americans. Can’t keep our hands outta anything.”

Crap. Shit. You’re still staring at his thigh. Fuck.

He chuckles, “an investor, then. I shoulda figured from the choice in joint.” He side eyes you and smirks, “see somethin’ ya like?”

You grasp vaguely at the back of your mind and remember another tidbit the agency told you to help with opening friendly negotiations.

“Sorry for staring, but… I don’t wanna get your pronouns wrong.” The bartender places down your drink and you gratefully start on it immediately.

The guy turns around so his legs are outside the bench and he’s leaning back on the bar. He tilts his head at you. “Aww! Real sweet of ya to worry, cowboy. I use he, though, so no worries!” He leans his elbows on the bar behind him and lets his head fall back. “Ya ain’t the first to wonder ‘bout this ‘ol fashion sense o’ mine, but I just never been a fan o’ suits myself, ya’know? Stiflin’ those things are. I don’t see how a fellow’s s’posed ta breathe with that silk noose ‘round the neck.” He holds his hands up in a nonchalant surrender. “Not that that’s  _ always _ a bad thing! I don’t judge.”

You choke on your appletini. He laughs. His laugh is loud enough to fill a room and full of so much genuine mirth you can’t help but chuckle along.

“The, uh,” you think this is the point where you compliment his dress? That’s where it’d be if you were siphoning info from any other dress-clad target. “I like it, though. Goes real well with your tattoos.”

“Oh!” He lights up, “Ya noticed!” He pulls forward the arm further away from you, and you see the same tire pattern band that you think’s around his thigh.

You wonder why you didn’t notice that before, but opt to instead think about literally anything else  _ other _ than his thighs.

So you bring up the next thing people always ask when they see  _ your _ tattoo.

“That a meaningful tattoo or just a fun icebreaker?”

He laughs again, doubling forward slightly with the force of it.

“Oh these sure got a story alright! Care to ‘ear it?”

You shrug. You can’t get any info from the barkeep without him catching on, so you’ve got nothing else you  _ can _ do, really. Might as well talk to this guy. He seems alright.

“Sure. I got time.”

He lights up again, excited beyond belief that you actually want to hear about his tattoos. You swallow. There’s something about his eyes…

“It’s gotta do with my, uh...  _ other _ attachments.” He says, gesturing less-than-subtly down his body to what you’re now realizing is an artificial peg leg. Wow. How did you not notice that before? He turns so his body faces your direction, and leans closer to you, resting his elbow ont he counter and holding his cheek in his hand. His eyes, lit up in excitement, look like they hold all his secrets in a safe that you’re not even sure HE knows the passcode to. They also look like they want you to find out.

“I’m originally from the outback, see? And you know us Australians…” He lowers his voice an octave, leaning even closer to you. “We can get pretty…  _ adventurous... _ ” He leans back all at once and you find yourself leaning forward subconsciously. “So me n some of the lads were out tourin’ on our 4-wheelers. Mine was still in the shop so I shared with a good buddy o’ mine we call Roadhog.” At your confusion he laughs again. “That’s a story for another time, cowboy! Aaaaanyway, he guns it without warnin’, ‘n I fell off backways. Lost me arm n’ leg to the guy behind me’s bike. S’why I wear the tires of it, see?”

He pulls the side slit of his dress away from his leg to show you his whole thigh. You know you’re supposed to be looking at where he’s showing you the comparison between his arm and leg bands, but you’re too busy fighting to keep your eyes from traveling anywhere they shouldn’t be. Leading lines like they taught you in art and shit. That’s gotta be it.

“Mmmm,” you say intelligently. “Real brave of you there to share all that. People where I come from don’t really like to talk about their past so much.”   


“Really?!” He recoils with the incredulity, “That’s dumb! Nothing in my past i ain’t willing to share.” The bartender puts his drink down, and he turns to grab it. “Well..” he adds, side eyeing you again, “with the right company, o’ course.”

You swallow. He throws back the martini glass, downing the whole drink like a shot, and slams it back down onto the counter, shattering it with the force. The barkeep looks over, but he waves away the concern and holds up the sign for two more drinks.

You remember that in Australia, a V sign is an insult similar to the middle finger for America.

He just fucking broke the guy’s glass and flipped him off.

_ Shit, _ that’s hot.

He seems to consider something and turns back to you.

“You know…” he says, leaning forward again. You don’t lean away. “Ya seem like a right proper fella, and since ya listened to my jabberin’ on, and ya brought up such a  _ good _ point about the, how you say, ‘ands on portion o’ your culture, I’d ‘ate to be insensitive. Why don’t-”

A hand clamps down on your shoulder, grounding you.

“MARTIN?” Tracer asks incredulously, “oh my word it  _ is _ you! Why, I haven’t seen you in ages! What in blimey are you doin’ ‘round these parts?!”

“Oh! Hey!” You start. You were never as good at the fake name thing as 008’s always been. “I was just talking to a new friend. Uh, Mr…”

When you look to the side, he isn’t there anymore. You scan the place. He’s gotta be here somewhere.

“Well!” She leads, “I gotta run, but you just HAVE to come with me! There’s so much we oughtta catch up on!”

She puts some bills on the counter and leads you out by your arm. You check around the bar again, but you don’t catch sight of him anywhere.

As soon as you’re in the car, Tracer’s debriefing you on all the valuable information she picked up. You have honestly no idea what you’ll tell her when she’s done.

You shift and there’s a strange rustling like paper. You look down and see a note tucked into the space between your buckle and belt. How the  _ hell _ did he…

The note says JOHN KRACHT followed by what you take to be a phone number.

“Oooo!” Tracer coos, snatching the note from your hand. “Did you find yourself an informant too?” She squints at the paper. “Joonk...raht? Is that ‘ow you say it? Nothing much here.”

“That’s cause he ain’t… really an informant I don’t think.”

“Then what is this?” She asks. She squints her eyes at it again, like maybe there’ll be fine print on the number.

“I couldn’t really get anything from the barkeep with that guy sitting right next to me, but I think I did learn something.”

“And what’s that, love?” She asks, looking up at you again.

“I might not be as straight as originally planned.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was supposed to be a one-shot shitpost but then i took it too far

If boot camp taught you one thing, it was not how to deal with this.

You knew calling John on your mobile telephone had to be breaking some kinda rule, but… there was  _ something _ about the fella that just seemed to draw you in, and no matter how much you tried to throw away the card, it just kinda… stuck in your hand until you finally took the plunge.

When you arrived at the designated meet-up location, he was wearing a skin-tight patchwork of short shorts with a pair of bright red suspenders and nothing else, and you remembered what exactly that something mighta been.

“Cowboy!” he greets, walking up to you and clapping you on the shoulder, “what exactly  _ is _ ya name? It’s kinda hard to brag about you without a proper name to use. Makes people think ya a touch crazy!”

This close, you can clearly see a piercing. Two spikes -- silver with a rust effect -- stick out from the top and bottom of his right collarbone. You can’t rightly say you’ve ever seen anyone with a body piercing before, and you have a lot of questions about why he’d ever-

“Oi?” he asks, looking confused. Fuck. Did he say something? Shit. You really have to start listening when he talks.

“Ohhhhh, I get it, guv’nor.” He chuckles lowly and you get the feeling you’re not on the same page as him. He steps forward and leans in.

His breath tickles your sideburns as he whispers practically into your ear, “if anonymous stuff’s your thing, I can work with that. For the record, John ain’t the real name either.”

You shiver but jump away at the thought.

“Nah! Nah that ain’t it.” You cover, straightening like you didn’t just startle into a sidle like a desert snake hopping along the dunes. The name’s Cree.  _ Mc _ Cree!”

He chuckles and passes by you. “I fig’red. Just messing with ya, lad. C’mon! We got a ‘ole lot ‘o stuff ta talk about.”

You follow him and his flattering spandex shorts to a set of doors off to the side of a coliseum-type stadium. In front of the door stands a Hulk of a guy towering over you. John(?)’s already taller than you by a good 5 inches ( _ with _ your boots on for God’s sake!), but this guy towers over  _ him _ . He’s wearing a University of Arkansas football helmet which covers his face, but otherwise everything about him screams “bouncer”. Behind him is a huge, black duralumin case and a door.

“Roadie!!” he greets, all enthusiasm as usual, “lookin’ good, cobber!”

He tries to pass right by the intimidating bodyguard, but is stopped by a single hand.

“Wh-” he starts, only to be cut-off when the bodyguard jerks his thumb to a sign. It reads: “NO shirt, NO shoes, for the love of God  **_NO,_ ** John!”

“Awww,” the suspender-clad man coos. “Come, now! That’s discriminatory against me! I should be able to wear what I want on the job!”

“Yes. Wear. Not: not wear.” the bodyguard flatlines. “Read your contract.”

Junkrat gives a dramatic sigh. “Well, unfortunately, I got meself some business ‘ere, and there’s nowhere else for us to do it. Oh, sob! What’s a lad ta do…” he fakes thinking like a business worker whose boss is standing right behind them.

The bouncer holds strong for a moment before taking in a deep breath and exhaling like a twister meetin a hurricane.

“Fine.” He grouses, voice a complete and horrifying raspy bass, “Wait a second.”

He turns and opens the case. After a little digging, he produces a single soccer cleat.

“Aw, thanks, lad!” John graciously swipes it from the bouncer’s proffered hand,    
You’re a lifesaver, roadie!” He turns to you holding the gift, “gimme a hand ‘ere, mate?” Confused over what he’s asking, you put your hand out.

After a small backswing, John kicks his foot up as high as he can (not very high, but more than you’d think a person with a peg leg would be able to compensate the balance shift for) and his thigh falls into your palm. He leans forward --face and bare chest inches from you-- and starts putting on his cleat.

You idly notice the bodyguard lifting the visor on his helmet and dropping his head in his hands to rub away an oncoming migraine, but you’re trying your best to ignore the heat radiating from his thigh that you can feel even through the leather of the palms on your fingerless gloves.

“So, uh,” you start, conversationally, “What’d you say this was? 4 wheeler racing? Sounds mighty neat.”

The bodyguard postpones his migraine treatment to give you A Look.

John tsks, “you civvies and ya tech talk. ‘Round here, call ‘em pods or everyone’s gonna know ya’re a  _ tourist _ .”

“Aw, c’mon. Being a tourist ain’t that bad.”

“No no,” he says, finishing his cleat with a flourish. He side-eyes you from under his eyelashes, “not always. Everyone’s got to do a bit of  _ exploration  _ every now and again.”

Your face heats up as you become hyper-aware of the edge of his short shorts pressing into your gloveless fingers. The bouncer groans like a dying cadillac.

He grabs your shoulders for support as he kicks his leg up and out of your grip. He steadies his balance on the ground before turning to the entrance.

“C’mon then! We’re gonna be late at this rate!” he marches forward, so assured you’ll follow that he doesn’t look back once.

You do, of course. Or at least you try. The bouncer clamps a giant hand down on your shoulder when you try to pass.

He leans in close. You still can’t see his face, even though the helmet’s grill is almost touching you. John’s still walking away, completely oblivious to your situation. You tense in case this guy wants a fight.

“Good luck.” he rasps. He tilts his head in John’s direction before backing off and claiming his original Guard Stance, letting you pass without any more cryptic warnings.

You catch up with John and follow as he leads you down concrete tunnels. You and him walk for a while, him laughing the whole way about this story or another. You only pass a handful of people as you walk, and their reactions to the two of you seem to follow a pattern: huffing, rolling of eyes, or scowling like a farmer at a coyote before beef season. John either ignores them or doesn’t notice, so you do your best to follow his example.

Time passes quickly talking with him. You don’t know much about car racing, having grown up in a rodeo town yourself, but from what you know of football stadiums, he leads you to a private booth on the inner island of the circular track. The walls are made of glass (“one-way!” he boasts) which give you a 360-degree view of the track.

“Nice, huh?” he asks, hoisting himself onto a counter sectioning off a mini kitchen from the rest of the suite, “comp’ny lends it ta me for private negotiations!”

You remember your own job and square your shoulders.

“Is that what this is?” you ask, casually moving to the furthest stool from the corner he’s sitting on, “and here I was thinking this was a friendly day at the tracks.”

“And why can’t it be both?” he challenges, turning to face you (an unhelpful part of your mind notes he straddles the whole counter in the process) and leaning forward to put his elbows on the granite. “I’ve always been a strong believer in mixing business and pleasure.”

You sit your elbow on the counter, “and I’ve always been a believer in my ol’ revolver. Don’t mean I’m gonna aim before I rightly know if the safety’s off.”

He laughs. “Allroight, allroight, I get the picture.” He places his chin in the open palm of his hand. “Speaking of pictures, why don’tcha look up and we can get started on the ol’ debriefing?”

Ignoring years of special training, you do as he says. Luckily, instead of a sniper looking for an easy shot, you see an emblem.

 

“Wh-” you stutter, caught off-guard, “What does the NFL have to do with anything?” he tilts his head with a condescending chuckle.

“Ya rally don’t know a  _ thing  _ about terrorism do ya, guv’nor?” he asks, as though that helps at all. Thankfully, he keeps going.

“These tracks are owned by my employa, the National Federation of Liberation. We’re an off-shoot of the American NFL which started us up not too long ago ‘cause of all the terrorist threats at stadiums. Don’t be fooled, the suits’ve expanded it to a global scale, but they can’t fig’re out how to keep the initialism and include that, so for right now we’re keepin’ the name. My job, specifically’s to be a visible member of my organization. To let people who’re not  _ quite _ out of line know that we’ve got our eyes on ‘em.” He puts his elbows on his knees and links his fingers together in a hammock to rest his chin in. “Sound familiar?  _ Mc- _ Cree?”

You tense.

“I don’t know what-”

“Listen, cowboy. We’ve known about your organization --Blackwatch, was it?--  _ long _ before I met you at Soberwatch. They came up with my whole position from watching you and ya partner, actually, so I owe ya my thanks on tha-”

“Wait, wait, somethin ain’t making sense here,” you interrupt. “Y’all fight  _ against _ terrorism?”

“O’ course!” he boasts proudly, pushing himself to sit as tall as he can.

“Then- then why are y’all tracking blackwatch? We-”

“ALSO fight against terrorism!” Junkrat finishes for you, “but y’see, we live in what’s called a ‘capitalist’ society, and the NFL? We make money off ‘o protecting non-NFL stadiums, like tha  _ real _ football stadiums and all that jazz, so if every John and every Shiela and every in-between’s  keeping track of possible terroristic threats, it gives  _ us _ competition! Which hurts the overall profits.”

“That…” words are failing you, “that’s  _ stupid!” _

“That’s Capitalism!” he cheers.

“So…” you trail off, “what  _ exactly _ are you telling me here.”

“ _ On _ the record,” he starts, “I’m telling ya the usual shtick. Leak your organization’s secrets to the NFL, we’ll find ways to infiltrate anyway, we  _ will _ take blackwatch down, etc. etc.” he waves his hand as though he’s fast forwarding through the spiel.

“Luckily for us, however, this place is used for some  _ illegal _ gambilng!” he shifts his gaze left and right to show you how shifty the business is, “so this place’s safe from recording or listening devices, so I can tell you what’s  _ off  _ the record!”

You wait a little, but he doesn’t keep going. “Uh… and what would that-”

“I’m glad you asked!” he pushes off the edge and slides himself to where you’re sitting at the other end of the counter. You turn towards him, resting your shoulder against the wall in lieu of your back. He sits with his cleat and peg on either side of your legs and his hands curled against the rounded edge of the granite.

“Off the record, I bore rather easily, y’see, and while I’m bored of the NFL,” he slides his hands back and leans a little away from you, “I happen to be  _ very _ interested in a different league altogether. And I think we can help each other.”

You hum. There’s almost an invisible force pulling you forward, so you let it shift you to rest your elbows on the counter in front of him and put your chin in your hands. An absent part in the back of your mind sounds an alarm because you’re between his legs looking up at him through your eyelashes like a rabbit ‘fore the ranch blows up with fuzz, but you can’t seem to bring yourself to move anywhere else. He seems equally amused, eyes hooded as he looks down at you from his reclined position.

“And how do you suppose we do that?”

“If I tell my organization there was a reason we couldn’t complete our little  _ transaction _ here,” he starts, “I’ll stay on your case, and we can keep meeting in places like this. In exchange, I can leak some info for you to use with your co-agent however you want.”

You pretend to think about it, but that doesn’t last longer than a flea on a naked mole rat.

“So I just have to think of something distracting enough for you to report back to your suits?”

“Yep! Just that easy.”

You hum, turning your head to the side. You can see all the pods lining up at the starting line.

“Y’know,” you start, “I’d love ta try that out sometime.”

He turns to see where you’re looking. His smirk turns diabolical.

“Cowboy?” He grabs your shoulders and pushes you back enough for him to slide off the counter. He’s close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off his chest. “You’re a genius.”

He grabs one of your hands and you let him drag you out the booth behind him. He passes right by the entrance to the tunnels and runs through an exit and down a flight of stairs leading to the inner island of the race track.

Honestly? You might’ve blacked out sometime in-transit because the next thing you know, you’re pressed to John’s back, arms wrapped around his waist, as he peels out from the docking area onto the active race track. You can feel his body shake with laughter as people scream after the two of you.

The wind whips at the two of you and his words are practically lost to it as he keeps going, “This vehicle’s specially modified by the NFL to rig the races in favor of whoever we place the bets on, so it’s practically guaranteed we’ll win!”

There are cops at the lap line when y’all round the track.

“Shit!” He yells, “hold on tight back there, cowboy!” He almost tips the pod turning it towards the concrete tunnel exit on the side of the track.

He races through the cave network like he’s done it a thousand times. You can hear echoes of sirens behind y’all, and press yourself further into his back to see around him better.

The ramp to the surface is clear, and he takes it at full speed.

The pod goes flying into the air.

“Now  _ THIS _ is pod racin’!” He whoops through his maniacal laughter. You think you’re screaming, but otherwise you’d answer him just fine.

He pulls into a random alley to hide the pod, and the two of you ditch it. They’ll be looking for it.

The two of you run until you can’t hear anyone chasing you, and then, just for good measure, you keep running. By the time you stop in some alley, the both of you are completely out of breath. You can tell you ran too much cause yours seems to have a taste to it.

“I think we lost them,” he says like he didn’t just run a marathon. Maybe it’s your boots.

He whirls around, and looks at you like you’re the partner in crime he’s always wanted.

You guess you are now. You think about the ridiculousness of this whole situation you’ve gotten yourself in and start laughing. You pat your hand down on his shoulder and it kinda… instinctively curls behind his neck instead. He takes your cue, grabbing handfuls of your vest and pulling you to him.

He tastes like smoke and creamer.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in 3 hours at midnight
> 
> For those of you who are waiting for me to finish other fics I'm sorry the wait is so long but I promise I will finish them or give some kind of conclusion eventually


End file.
